


Starvation

by witch_brew



Series: River Dreams [1]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Cannibalism, Death, Gen, Gore, No sex in this one, Other, Series, Short, Vore, Vore?, he eats you, hes a forrest spirit, hes starving, its bad, lawrence isnt human, monster!lawrence, spirit!lawrence, you die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 17:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11407506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witch_brew/pseuds/witch_brew
Summary: He's so hungry. Save him.





	Starvation

**Author's Note:**

> HAHAHHAHAHAHA FUCK ITS LIKE TWO AM

You are hopelessly, desperately lost.

 

You'd ventured into the woods hours ago, back when the sun was still in the sky. It's night now, a chill settling in the air as you crunch over dead leaves.

 

You'd entered the woods to follow a strange sound. It sounded like crying.

 

You had been worried that, perhaps, someone was hurt.

 

But now, with your cellphone long dead, thick trees surrounding you, the sounds of the forest slowly increasing your sense of unease, you wish you had just kept walking. You found no one, and now you are alone and afraid, far deeper in the trees than you have ever ventured before.

 

You have to keep moving though. It's cold, and if you stop for too long you fear the freezing air will seep into your bones and make you into a statue, frosted and dead and alone forever in these trees.

 

You don't want to die alone.

 

Fleetingly, you remember your deceased grandfather's home, so close to these woods. It's where you'd been heading before you heard the awful crying. Your mother wanted you to have a look. She thought it was too secluded for your father and herself, but she wanted you to take a look and see if you liked it for yourself.

 

But that crying. It had driven you to pull your car off the road.

 

Months from now, long after your mother reports you missing, they'll find that car, somehow already overrun with nature. Hidden just out of sight in the trees. Abandoned.

 

They'll never find you.

 

A root catches you by the ankle, causing you to trip. Your hands slap onto the rough bark of a tree as you gasp in pain. Your ankle, when you free it, is already swelling from the injury. Your palms are moist, skinned and raw and bleeding.

 

You're bleeding.

 

Somewhere in the woods you hear footsteps, moving far too quickly towards you.

 

You run, a slight limp in your step, without even thinking about it. You have to get away.

 

Whatever is after you, it's too fast, its footsteps too focused, to be a good thing.

 

So you run, sloppily dragging your bad foot over rocks and roots and ignoring the pain from each misstep.

 

And after a while, you can no longer hear whatever that t h i n g was chasing you. You stop, gasping for air, your lungs burning from the exertion and the cold. Your sweat is already cooling, freezing to your skin.

 

You soon realize, once the adrenaline begins to wear off and reality settles back into it's proper place, that you've run deeper still into the woods. The trees now so dense you can't even make out the moon's placement through them.

 

You're never going to find your way out.

 

You begin to cry then, horrible gross sobs that shake your entire body, fat tears sliding down your cheeks, leaving a wet trail that quickly freezes over, the air unforgivably cold now.

 

You sink to your knees in the soft dirt, wrapping your arms around yourself as the wetness of the soil begins to seep through the knees of your jeans.

 

You aren't sure how long you cry there, certain your fate has been sealed, doomed to die alone and cold, but eventually you begin to hear something.

 

Faint, and then a bit louder.

 

The crying from earlier. Something small, scared. Wounded.

 

Alone and afraid, just like you.

 

You slowly stand, wincing at the sharp stab of pain that shoots through your ankle when you put weight on it, and begin trudging forwards, eyes unfocused, brain only wanting you to find it. The crying thing.

 

Comfort it.

 

Let it know it won't be alone when it dies.

 

The more you walk, the louder the crying becomes, and the more awake you become, seeming to shed the cold drowsiness that had settled into your bones just moments before until you're outright sprinting towards the noise, desperately hoping whatever it is will help guide you out of these trees. Back to civilization.

 

Hoping against hope that you might survive this night.

 

(You won't.)

 

Finally, you break through the trees.

 

Ahead of you stretches a river, the moonlight illuminating the rushing waters. There's about ten feet of clearing on either side of it, three of it devoted to the muddy bank.

 

A few feet away from you, folded in on himself in the tall grass, is a man clutching his stomach and crying out, so pitiful.

 

So weak.

 

So...

 

h u n g r y.

 

You approach, eyes wide, ignoring the cold that's already trying to worm it's way back into your bones. You try, weakly, voice cracking from misuse, to call out to him.

 

When his head snaps up, everything in you wants to run, but your muscles tense and lock, freezing you to the spot. Turning you into a statue, cold but with a pulse.

 

He has antlers.

 

They stick out of his long blonde locks, large and imposing, and you're certain he isn't human. If not the antlers that tell, it would be his eyes.

 

They're blue as the bluest sky, and they are g l o w i n g.

 

His face is thinner than it should be. Something is clearly wrong with him. Those cries, so desperate, that had drawn you here. They were not false cries.

 

The creature before you is starving.

 

You take a shaky step back, a plea on the edge of your lips, but he moves too fast.

 

You never had a chance.

 

He full-body tackles you to the ground, arms tightly wrapping around you. Your ankle rolls beneath you in the fall, the bone snapping loudly, and you scream in pain.

 

He doesn't like that, one hand shooting up to press against your throat, a threat. You silence yourself quickly, tears forming in your eyes, leaking slowly down your cheeks.

 

He starts by looking at you, hands tracing your cheeks, thumbs wiping away the tears with the curiosity of a wild animal. Then his hands, so warm, slide down your collar bones, over your chest, and press against your stomach.

 

The glow in his eyes strengthen then, and you feel an instinctual fear so deep in your bones that you know you are going to die.

 

He looks so hungry.

 

Swiftly, your shirt is torn open, exposing your body to him. He growls, a low and desperate sound, and looks into your eyes one last time.

 

You think he looks apologetic, almost.

 

“I won't waste any of you.”

 

Before you can ask what that means, or even plead senselessly for your life, he presses one of the sharp tips of his antlers into the soft of your belly and p u s h e s.

 

You begin to struggle, panicking, lips opening to cry out, to beg, to. To do something.

 

But nothing escapes besides a choked gasp as the skin on your stomach is torn open just enough for him to fit his hands into.

 

You get to watch through the agony as he pulls out your organs, biting into them, devouring you. The blood is warm, but you feel colder than ever covered in so much of it. He keeps eating, shoving parts of you into his mouth.

 

When he grins and you see chunks of your insides in his teeth, you decide to stop looking.

 

You stare at the sky instead, body growing numb aside from the odd tugging sensation.

 

You're dying, you think. You're right.

 

You wish you could start over. Try again. You'd ignore the crying next time.

 

You're faintly aware of his hand in your rib cage. Your heart is fluttering weakly, like a bird.

 

The moon is too bright, you turn your head to watch the river.

 

He wraps his fist around your heart. Tugs.

 

You see the river.

 

It's the last thing you'll ever see.

 


End file.
